The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 10

United States Embassy

Jakarta, Indonesia

9:00 a.m.

The waiting area outside the ambassador’s office was surprisingly plain, Zack thought, especially in contrast to the embassy offices in Singapore, where the anteroom outside Ambassador Griffith’s office was ornate, complete with intricate wood carvings adorning the bookcases, swanky loveseats, silver tea trays, and an expensive grandfather clock.

But here in Jakarta, a black leather sofa and a couple of end tables that could have come from OfficeMax filled the room. The secretary’s pitiful, Rooms-to-Go-ish desk was not even manned at the moment.

Perhaps this should not be surprising.

Indonesia, for all its geostrategic importance to the free world, was out of sight and out of mind for most Americans.

Unlike Singapore, Indonesia was a poor country. Poor countries rarely get noticed by rich countries.

Its moderate Islamic government had made no waves, and other than the horribly devastating 2004 tsunami, Indonesia had pretty much stayed out of the news in the United States.

Most Americans could not say, if pressed, which country around the Indian Ocean had been most devastated by the tsunamis, nor could they finger Indonesia on the globe if someone put a gun to their heads.

Yep. Out of sight, out of mind.

He turned and looked at the stunning naval officer, sitting in her summer white dress uniform, complete with white skirt and shiny white pumps. He gave her an affectionate tap on the hand.

“You sleep okay?”

“Like a baby,” Diane said. “You?”

“Like a baby, baby,” Zack said. “I fell asleep during takeoff from the carrier.” He grinned teasingly.

She gave him a half-mischievous, half-adoring gaze. “That takeoff didn’t bother me that much, you know.”

He feigned a coughing spell, which provoked her to lightly punch him on his shoulder board.

“Your boss always running behind like this?”

“Who knows?” Diane looked at her watch. “He had a conference call with Washington this morning.”

The door to the ambassador’s office opened and a slim, fiftyish woman in a dark blue dress walked out. With her gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, she looked the part of the lifelong State Department bureaucrat she was. When she spoke, it was obvious that she was American.

“I’m Ms. Kowalski, Ambassador Stacks’ secretary. The ambassador will see you now.”

Zack rose and followed Diane into the ambassador’s office.

Inside, a gray-haired man in a white dress shirt and red tie sat behind a large mahogany desk, looking down and scribbling something on a legal pad. On his desk sat a nameplate engraved in gold and set in marble that proclaimed, Martin Stacks, Ambassador.

Behind the desk, on wooden poles and planted in gold round stands, were the Indonesian and American flags.

On the wall behind the desk were diplomas-undergrad University of Texas, Harvard PhD-and a military commission, showing that the ambassador was once a lieutenant in the naval reserve. Good. Perhaps they would speak the same language.

Ambassador Stacks laid his pen down and looked up with a smile.

“Well, it looks like I’ve got two naval attachés instead of one.” He came around his desk and first extended his hand to Diane. “Welcome aboard, Diane.”

“Good to be here, sir.”

“And, Zack, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He extended his hand. “I know we’ve got a real mess in Singapore. Please be seated.” Ambassador Stacks motioned the naval officers toward two maroon leather chairs, each positioned at forty-five-degree angles from his chair. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee,” Zack said. “Black.”

“Cream and sugar, please, sir,” Diane added.

The ambassador nodded at Ms. Kowalski, who nodded back and quickly walked out of the office.

“So,” Stacks began, “how was our visit to the Rock?”

“Productive, Mr. Ambassador,” Diane said. “We’ve established a definite link, we think, to at least some Indonesian involvement in the attacks.”

“Really?” Ambassador Stacks raised his eyebrow as Ms. Kowalski returned to the office, holding a silver tray with a silver coffee pitcher, three steaming mugs, a white bowl of cubed sugar, and a small pitcher of milk. “Thanks, Alma.” Stacks nodded at his secretary, then took a plain white mug and sipped from it. “Care to elaborate, Commander Colcernian?”

Diane stirred a cube of sugar in her coffee. “Sir, we believe at least one of the four terrorists killed in the attempted attack on the tanker SeaRiver Baytown was a member of the Indonesian navy.”

The ambassador set his coffee on the table. “What evidence do we have?”

Diane nodded at Zack. That was his cue. He reached into his briefcase and retrieved the military identification card found on board USS Abraham Lincoln. “This is an Indonesian navy identification card we found with the belongings of one of the dead American sailors on board Abraham Lincoln, sir. The photo matches one of the bodies of the terrorists taken aboard USS Reuben James.”

Ambassador Stacks studied the identification card. “Hmm. Susilo Mulyasari. Indonesian navy. Chief Warrant Officer.” He laid the identification card on his desk. “And this was found on board the Lincoln?”

“Yes, sir,” Zack said. “There were four terrorists on board the speedboat that was taken out by the Reuben James. Two were American sailors off the Lincoln. The other two had southeast Asian features, and the JAG officer on the Lincoln found this Indonesian sailor’s ID in the seabag of one of the dead American sailors on board the Lincoln. This Mulyasari dude must have given the American sailor his identification card at some point before they started all this. Who knows why? We haven’t been able to identify the fourth terrorist. He could be Malaysian. Could be Indonesian. We’re not sure.”

The ambassador held up the identification card against the light and squinted at it. “Say this matches some autopsy photos or something?”

“They’re pretty gruesome, Mr. Ambassador,” Zack said. “But I have them here, if you really want to see them, sir.”

“Well, I’ve already had breakfast,” Stacks said. “And that’s what I get paid the big bucks for.” He gave Zack a hand-’em-over gesture.

“Aye, sir.” Zack laid a folder on the ambassador’s desk.

The ambassador winced, holding the photo of Mulyasari’s body against his identification card. “It’s a match, all right.”

“Sorry, sir.” Zack said. “Not a pretty sight.”

“All right, I’ve seen enough.” Stacks handed the photo back to Zack. “I’ll have the deputy chief of mission contact the Indonesian military for information on this guy. By this time tomorrow, we’ll know about Warrant Officer”-he picked up the identification card-“Mulyasari’s mama, his grandmama, what kind of beer he liked to drink, and whether he was into hootchy-kootchy shows.”

“Great idea, Mr. Ambassador,” Zack said.

“Agreed,” Diane said.

“And speaking of tomorrow…” Stacks was looking at Diane. “You have plans for tomorrow afternoon, Commander Colcernian?”

Diane glanced at Zack, then back at the ambassador. “I serve at your disposal, sir.”

“I want you to come with me for a meeting with President Santos.”

“That would be a privilege, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Be prepared to depart the embassy at 1330 for a 1400 briefing with President Santos. He needs to know that one of his navy members is trying to bomb oil tankers, and I want you to brief him on what you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Diane said.

“Zack, I’d like you to follow up on this Mulyasari. I’m sure our staff can get a copy of his military file from the Indonesians, but I’d like you to track down whatever information you can above and beyond that. My gut is that this guy wasn’t operating alone.” The ambassador ran his hand swiftly through his hair. “Maybe he’s an Aceh sympathizer. I don’t know. But whoever he really is, wherever he’s from, the more we know, the better.”

“Yes, sir,” Zack said.

“You will have the full cooperation of this embassy. Whatever you need. Ambassador Griffith, I’m sure, will give you the full cooperation of his embassy as well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Zack said.

“Oh, and Diane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s my understanding that President Santos is scheduled for a physical tomorrow in his offices just before our meeting. So he could be just a little ornery. If so, don’t take it personally.”

“Understood, sir,” Diane said.

“Okay, let’s break. Diane, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at thirteen-thirty.”

Residence of Dr. Anton Budi

Jakarta, Indonesia

10:00 a.m.

Anton opened the refrigerator and reached for the pitcher of water. He poured himself a glass and walked into the living room, where the morning sunlight was now pouring in through the back windows that faced to the east. Guntur was resting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket from his chest down, and still with an IV drip full of antibiotics pouring into his body.

He felt his brother’s forehead. “You feel like you are running a low-grade fever, Guntur.”

“I feel fine,” Guntur said. “A low-grade fever may be expected after surgery.” He took the water and sipped it. “Thank you.”

“Even after all these years, Guntur, being a doctor to a doctor is an unusual experience to me.”

“Anton, we must discuss tomorrow.” Guntur tried pushing himself up. “Oh.” A gasp. Another grunt.

“Lie back, Guntur. Give the antibiotics time.”

“Okay.” Guntur complied. “But about tomorrow.”

Anton looked away, his gaze falling on the red and yellow flowers, palm trees, and lush vegetation in his small back yard. He purchased this modest home in the prosperous Cilindak area of Jakarta five years ago. Though living alone, he had become quite comfortable. Deep down, he had hoped to raise a family here. Or at least to have a family.

But he had never married, except to his work as a surgeon. His had been a lonely life. He had dated, and was even engaged once, but when he had little time to spend with her she met another man. At the end of the day, he had no one but Guntur, who also had been a bachelor all these years. Together, they shared the memory of their father, who had died in a cause that would be greater than any of their lives.

Though paradise would certainly be better than anything man on earth could offer, he was going to miss his own comfortable corner of the world.

“Yes.” He looked back at Guntur. “About tomorrow. What is it that you need me to do?”

Guntur reached his hand out again. “The president is scheduled for a physical between 1:30 and 2:00 P.M. He is always running slightly behind. All his appointments run ten to fifteen minutes late, and sometimes more.

“The physical will most likely begin at 1:45 and end at 2:15. They allow me to bring my cell phone into the president’s office. I will set the alarm on my cell phone to beep at 2:00 P.M. At that point, I will walk over and stand very close to the president.

“I am told that the remote control mechanism on this detonation device will activate from a range of one thousand yards.” There was a pause. The brothers’ eyes locked.

Anton understood what Guntur wanted. He broke the silence. “Merdeka Square, just across the street from the palace, is within range of the president’s office, no?”

“Yes,” Guntur responded. “That is within range.”

The brothers clasped hands. “I, too, will set my cell phone to go off at 2:00 P.M. I will count fifteen seconds. Will this give you enough time?”

“Yes, that should be sufficient,” Guntur said. “If something goes wrong, I will text you with the word abort.”

“Very well. I am with you, my brother,” Anton said.

“And I with you,” Guntur said. “And I do this also for our father. He would be proud of you, Anton.”

It hit him. Dr. Hendarman Budi would be proud of him. Yes, Guntur had conceived the idea and was giving his body. But Guntur could not do this without him. His life, even if it were to end soon, would have lasting meaning.

“Father would be proud of both of us, my brother. Soon, we will all be together again.”

Jakarta Air Base

10:30 a.m.

Slipping his shades on to protect his eyes from the tropical morning sun, Captain Hassan Taplus crossed his arms and leaned back against the fender. The general’s jet had just touched down and was now taxiing on the runway. The whine of its turbojets grew louder as the pilot turned right off the runway and onto the tarmac.

An air force grounds crew pushed a portable staircase toward it.

The plane rolled to a stop. Three seconds later, the sound of the engines faded below the voice of the grounds crew chief barking instructions to his men.

The men responded, pushing the stairs to the doorway of the 737.

A moment later, the general emerged, prompting the grounds crew chief to yell, “Atten-chun!” His crew members fell into two pinpointprecision lines at the base of the stairwell. The general started down the staircase with Colonel Croom in tow.

Captain Taplus walked to the open funnel of the honor guard and waited for the general to accept and return salutes of the men as he walked by.

As the general approached, Taplus himself shot a smart salute. “Welcome home, General.”

Perkasa returned the salute. “How are things with Dr. Budi?” He spoke under his breath and out of earshot of the honor guard.

“All set for tomorrow afternoon at fourteen-hundred hours, General.”

Perkasa was making fast strides toward the staff car.

“How were things in Karachi, sir?” Taplus asked.

“Better than expected, Hassan. General Sharif was sympathetic to our cause.” He stopped in front of the car and felt his shirt pocket. “Do you have a cigarette, Hassan?”

“Of course, General.” Taplus extracted a Camel, the general’s favorite, then offered a lighter.

“Get into the car.”

“Yes, General.” Taplus opened the door for the general, popped a salute as the general sat, then closed it and got into the driver’s seat.

“The nuclear materials that we need are in my plane, in the storage bay,” Perkasa said through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You are in charge of securing and transporting this material, Hassan. You understand that time is of the essence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” Another drag from the cigarette. “We have acquired six thermonuclear devices. Three in the ten-kiloton range. Three are suitcase bombs.”

“Ten kilotons?” Hassan’s heart jumped. His mind raced. This was really happening! He would be a part of history! Maintain your professionalism, Hassan. “That’s almost the size of the bomb that the Americans dropped on Hiroshima. And the suitcase bombs will rip out the heart of any city.”

“Yes.” The general raised his eyebrow. “I had hoped for something larger, but this is a blessing from Allah. Now listen, Hassan. Three of the devices must be shipped immediately to Mexico, per our master plan as part of Operation Decapitate. Two suitcase bombs, plus the ten kiloton to be used at the end of the operation. We have already been shipping conventional devices. But I want three nukes shipped to Mexico this morning.”

“Yes, General.”

“Another ten-kiloton device is to be shipped, along with a team of nuclear scientists and bomb technicians, to the Island of Gag, in the Raja Ampats Islands, again according to the Malacca Plan. I want that device and that team on a plane to the Raja Ampats before noon today. I want you to accompany the team as my representative.”

“Yes, General!” Goosebumps crawled over his body. He would be the general’s representative at the most important event in his nation’s history.

“The two remaining devices will remain under the control of our forces here on Java, where Colonel Croon will direct the ground logistics of tomorrow’s operation.” Perkasa nodded at Colonel Croon.

Colonel Croon nodded in return. “Of course, General.”

“Hassan.” Perkasa looked back at Taplus. “Make sure that our friends at TVRI have a crew on the spot to record the event, along with a live satellite uplink capability.” A pause. “Can you handle all this?” Perkasa put his hand on Hassan’s shoulder.

“General, you can trust me. I will not let you down. You have my word.”

“Good. Then I want you to remain here at the air base and oversee the unloading and proper transportation of these nuclear materials. Colonel Croon will drive me back to our quarters, where we will continue to work on tomorrow afternoon’s military operations.”

“Yes, sir, General.”

“Let us get to work,” the general said. “In forty-eight hours, we will have crossed the rivers of history, and we will have emerged on the splendid, sparkling shores of our great destiny!”

Hassan got out of the car. A minute later, it disappeared from sight.

He walked to the 737 to inspect its deadly cargo. Within two days, if he performed his duties to perfection, he could become the youngest general in the Indonesian army, a key player in the world’s newest superpower.

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

10:45 a.m.

Kristina stepped into the confessional room and started to make the sign of the cross. Then she stopped.

It had been so long since she had made the sign that she realized she had forgotten how to do it. Was she supposed to cross from right to left? Or was it left to right?

She tried right to left. That seemed right. If she was wrong, surely God would understand.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Do I hear a voice that is familiar?” The sound of the warm, accepting voice from behind the blinds was as comforting as it had been before.

“Perhaps, Father. I was here a few days ago.”

“Yes. I seem to remember your voice. We priests get very good at that, you know. Are you coming to confess the sin of leaving prematurely before?”

She wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I cannot promise you that I will not leave prematurely again today.”

“Hmm. You can run from God’s priests. We are but men, full of flaws like other men. But none of us can run from God. The Scripture proclaims that the eyes of the Lord are everywhere. He is omniscient, omnipresent, and all-seeing.”

“Yes, Father. In my head, I know this to be true. Yet I continue to run, and often in the wrong direction.”

“We have all run in the wrong direction, my child. But Jesus, the Good Shepherd of our souls, grieves in his heart if even the least of us goes astray. So tell me, why have you come today?”

Could she trust anyone? Even a priest? The priest was God’s representative. Surely she could trust God. “I am afraid something bad is about to happen, Father. Something very bad. I found some information, I think, and if the wrong people know I discovered it, I will die.”

“I see.” The calm voice was reassuring. “Remember the words of the Scripture. ‘Fear not, for I am with thee. My rod and my staff, they comfort thee…Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, bring your requests to God…And the peace of God, that passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”

The words of the Scripture were strangely comforting to her, even in the midst of the horrible black storm in which she found herself at the moment.

“You know that your words are safe here, my daughter,” the reassuring voice continued. “What would you like to share with me?”

Her breath quickened. Sweat drenched her body. She looked up. The picture of Jesus hung on the wall, just as before. “I saw their plan, Father. I saw their plan and I believe it.”

The priest did not respond. Perhaps he was calling another priest to hear this. Perhaps she should go. Now.

“What is so bad that is going to happen?” The voice brought her back into her chair.

She gazed at the picture. Were his eyes following her? “Someone is going to die, Father.” A huge exhale. She touched the Bible on the table under the lamp below the picture. She closed her eyes.

“Who is going to die?”

“Someone important. Someone very important.”

“Can you tell me who?”

“I’m so afraid, Father. I’m afraid they will kill me too.”

“Fear not, my child. You are safe in the church.”

“I feel safe nowhere.”

“You are safe here.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Okay. If you cannot tell me who, can you tell me when?”

She gasped. Water. She needed water. Her eyes met the picture again. “Soon, Father. A very important person will die soon.”

“You sound like you are having trouble breathing.”

“I must go, Father. I’ve said too much already.” She stood and reached for the door.

“No. Please…”

She opened the door and sprinted down the hall, out into the sunshine. Under a palm tree, she bent over and heaved. She wanted to vomit, but she could not. Water. She needed water.

The Pentagon

11:30 p.m.

Cappuccinos might be popular in New York, at the New York Mercantile Exchange, at Starbucks, and at other pricey coffee joints around America, but black coffee was the order of the day in the inner sanctum of the Pentagon, where officers of the United States military came together to plot and war-game and mastermind America’s defense.

Or in this case, black coffee was the order of the night. Though he had been assigned a Bachelor Officers Quarters room at nearby Fort Myer, Lieutenant Robert Molster had erected a cot in “the Building,” as the Pentagon was called, to do his best to keep a watchful eye on whoever or whatever was out there. This night watch was mandated by the twelve-hour time difference between Washington and Singapore. The middle of the night in Washington was the middle of the next day in the Malacca Strait region.

Molster checked his watch.

23:30 hours.

11:30 P.M. in Washington meant it was 11:30 A.M. in Singapore and Kuala Lampur, 10:30 A.M. in Jakarta. He was used to staying up all night. That had been his job in New York. But in New York, he slept during the day.

Here, he had been conducting daytime briefings in the Pentagon to get the top brass up to speed on the intricacies of the oil markets and paying attention to the markets all night. He’d had time only for brief naps.

He felt like an alley cat. Half-awake. Half-asleep.

His body wasn’t sure whether to sleep or to wake up. He sat on the side of his cot and eyed the small picture of Janie. The image of her jet-black hair, her rosy cheeks, and her electrifying grin…she could bring a smile to his face even through the glass of a plain five-by-seven picture frame.

Since the limit moves and attacks in the Malaccan Strait, there had been nothing.

A couple of swigs of the now-lukewarm black coffee were left. No point in letting it go to waste. Bottoms up. All gone. Bitter.

It was a bit unusual to have real-time financial data reflecting commodities movement streaming into the Pentagon. Except for the fact that he was wearing a US Navy uniform, Molster could almost imagine himself back in New York.

Almost.

But when financial data or any other data becomes valuable to the United States military, such data becomes military intelligence.

So here he was. Brought here by fate. The perfect hybrid officer, in the eyes of the military, combining his unique military intelligence training with his unique commodities expertise.

“I’m going to try and catch some shut-eye, fellows,” he said to the two other intelligence duty officers, an army captain and an air force first lieutenant. “Wake me up if there’s so much as a minor blip on those charts.”

“Not a problem, Lieutenant,” the captain said.

Bob unbuttoned his whites, kicked off his shoes, and slipped under a sheet. The pillow felt relaxing to the back of his head.

He closed his eyes. The light hum of computer equipment and the soft, occasional murmur of voices served as an inconsequential backdrop to the images from his past that floated in his mind.

Disjointed images.

Beautiful, softly glowing, colorful pictures.

The red brick rotunda at the University of Virginia…Small craft crisscrossing the Hudson River on a moonlit night. His first glimpse of Janie, so confident, yet with a haunting beauty, as she sat behind the recruiter’s table at UVA.

Oil futures.

Limit moves.

Charts.

More limit moves.

The comforting veil of sleep descended over him.

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

Molster opened his eyes to the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. The computer’s alarm was on fire, or so it seemed.

The army captain and air force lieutenant were huddled over their computer screens. “Looks like we’ve got a huge limit move in progress, Lieutenant,” the army captain said. “Tons of sharp volume.”

Still in his T-shirt, Molster popped onto the floor and peered over the captain’s shoulder. He squinted his eyes and gazed at the screen.

“Here we go again,” he said. His stomach churned and knotted. “Lieutenant,” Molster tapped the air force lieutenant on the back of the shoulder. “Notify the J-2 duty officer. Limit move in crude oil.” He checked the time. “Mark it. 23:42 hours. Per standing orders. Alert chain of command. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the air force lieutenant said. He picked up the phone to call the J-2 duty officer.

Mexican freighter Salina Cruz

Near the Texas coast

1:30 a.m.

Captain Alberto Mendoza throttled his freighter into neutral. The running lights of two other vessels blinked across the black waters, but under a new moon, it was impossible to see who or what they were.

His local radar swept the fifteen-mile circumference around the freighter Salina Cruz.

Based on the radar sweep, they were probably a couple of small trawlers out of Brownsville. Definitely not the right reading for a US Coast Guard cutter.

Other than that, nothing.

Mendoza turned to his guest. “We are at the drop point. Seven miles from shore. Are you ready?”

“Ready, amigo,” the skinny man with the black scruffy beard spoke in an accent that was not Hispanic.

Mendoza did not know the man’s real name. All he knew was that the man’s name supposedly was Rahman.

They were all named Rahman, it seemed. Every one of them. And they’d paid him more money than he’d ever seen in his life to sail to this spot off the Texas coast, under cover of darkness, to offload cargo and to keep his mouth shut.

“My crew will help you disembark.” Mendoza waved his hand. His first officer scrambled out onto the deck. Five Mexican deckhands began swinging three rubber boats, all inflatable, down toward the dark waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Rahman’s crew scrambled over the side, descending rope ladders, making their way down to the boats. A moment passed.

“Everyone in place?” Mendoza yelled down to the water.

“All ready.”

“Okay, we’re lowering the boxes.”

Mendoza gave the command. A crane onboard began lowering the first of three plywood boxes, about twice the size of a large coffin, down over the side. The boxes bore the words Bottled Water painted in English.

Probably cocaine or heroin. But Mendoza did not ask. Too many questions meant no repeat business. The manifest declared that the boxes were bottled water, and that would be his story if the Coast Guard stopped him on the high seas.

He struck a cigarette and leaned over the side of his ship. The stars cast a faint glow onto the waters of the Gulf. The whining sound of the ship’s cargo crane blended with the mild breeze blowing from the east. He watched as the third box of “bottled water” to be offloaded from his two-hundred-twenty-foot ship this week disappeared into the darkness below.

Moments later, the sound of outboard motors ignited from the surface, and then the sound of the three rubber craft pulling away, starting their westward journey to the Texas coast.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mendoza shouted. “Set course for one-eightzero degrees.”

“Sì, Capitan,” came the voice of his first officer from inside the pilot room.

Mendoza flipped his cigarette overboard, watching the red, burning tip whirl down in the wind as Salina Cruz began her wide-sweeping turn to head back to her home port of Tampico, Mexico.

Gag Island

West Papua, Indonesia

3:30 p.m.

Captain Hassan Taplus stood on the sandy beaches of the remote tropical island and gazed seaward to the southwest. Only a hundred miles south of the equator, the sun was blazing high above the horizon and he could hear the sound of helicopters approaching. He brought his binoculars to his eyes for a closer look.

So far, nothing but water and horizon.

The sound of the rotors grew louder.

He swung the binoculars slightly to the right. Two choppers appeared in the viewfinder. They approached through the blue skies, low over the water, perhaps a half-mile downrange.

“Excellent.” He checked his watch and smiled. “Right on time.”

More goosebumps. When this operation was complete, his ascendance up the Indonesian military command would become a fait accompli.

A military hero. That is how history would remember him. A pioneer. A founding father of the new Islamic Republic of Indonesia!

Yes, General Perkasa would be viewed as the leader of the movement. But he would be remembered by history as a military mastermind who stood at Perkasa’s side.

One day, Perkasa would relinquish power. And on that day…chills descended Hassan’s spine…perhaps even the presidency would await him.

The choppers circled just overhead now. The first feathered down onto the beach about a hundred yards from where he was standing, not far from the chopper that had carried him in, along with the advance party. The second landed a few seconds afterwards.

Their engines powered down, and the bay door opened on the second chopper.

They stepped out, one by one.

The passengers were eight nuclear scientists who had been working on contingency plans for the development of a proposed floating nuclear power plant in Indonesia. Their work had met stiff resistance from the international community, particularly the Aussie government, which protested that a nuclear mishap would spread deadly radiation south over Darwin and other populated sections off Australia. Now these men, all loyal to the general, would oversee the technical aspects of the operation, under his command.

In teams of two, the scientists quickly made their way to the first chopper, where somewhere in the dark recesses of its bay lay one of the ten-kiloton nuclear devices that General Perkasa had purchased from the Pakistanis.

Just behind the two helicopters, a portable steel tower was already being erected by the advance team into the tropical sky. From this tower, the device would be suspended.

What a waste, Taplus thought, of such a rare and valuable weapon. However, virtually every nation that had ever entered the nuclear club had done so with a visible demonstration of power. Indonesia would do the same.

Six men lifted the crate out of the helicopter bay. This image would be forever frozen in his memory.

It was all so surrealistic. One of the most beautiful tropical refuges in the world would soon become a nuclear wasteland.